What are we
what are we
what are we
waiting for?
What am I waiting for? Insinuation
explanation, manipulation, the ation nations.
What about imagination?
Category Archives: art
The defaced masterpiece, cropped so lovingly. This is where it was supposed to go (blank arch, bare wall).
What is a redeye? The red eye of the future, Rembrandt blears at you. Someone who knows.
I see a flimsy tissue, leaves printed on one side and a small saying on the other. Inserted into envelopes. Like bank deposits, or like cookie envelopes. Anything. Or in a stack of slips, withdrawal or deposit, anything.
I am sleepy I am escapade I am trying and I am embroiled enmeshed in software wanting hard to order paper dreaming of a touch of handmade paper khadi paper and a morning watercolor made in the land of garbage and the land of smells.
The pale yellow amaryllis photo.
The thin maroon line around the outside of each petal. The curved forms. Not done. Crisp. Pale. Curved.
The body.
Isolated.
I need my myths. Myths and symbols. You know I am an arbiter of objects, time for splotch art, hey I am a splotch art.
Here is what you have to know.
Nek Chand Sculpture Garden.
Who are your friends?
Who are your relatives?
Why can’t there be original artwork on this Starbucks’ walls?
Why is suburban life so oriented toward the dead?
Her face made up like a cadaver.
I see a large format, almost transparent page, light tint of color (apricot, violet, pink, green) with a long private free write on it. Who cares if it’s inappropriate?
It’s transparent, colorless, isn’t it.
It’s styleless. It’s a mess. It’s a loss.
She would like to be more formal but she needs to trample on the Styles and Formatting first. Hello Auto Format hello button hello program hello nice to meet you and make you she wants to read an Art Book. Nothing appropriate in her reflection.
I am interested in Artist’s Books. I really don’t want to publish an ugly standard book. I designed an ugly standard book and had it produced by Thomson Shore. That’s good. I learned a lot. I made some mistakes. It was good though. No way to teach you how to do this. I don’t want to be generous, don’t trust myself. I am not that generous. Not sure you have aptitude. I do not want to work with people without aptitude.
I am interested in—
- online poetries
- blog as poem
- applied poetry, particularly in the office
- poet as one confronted with the unknowable, unspeakable meanings
- primitive rhythms
- experiments with art
- how to make digital art look non-digital
- splotches of watercolor (ink on top)
- daily practice
- gardening/writing intersection
- spirituality/writing intersection
I believe I can get home. Go home and—work on my splotch art. Always a tentative on-the-fly effort with permanent, disfigured results.
I hear the train. I hear the surface water sound that invades this house. This is a house of strangers. I am intrigued by watercolors. I am happier here if I pretend I live in California OR Oregon. Yes, hey ho, I live in Oregon.
Can a sculptor capture such a subtle shading of emotion? No. Maybe a painter can.
I am sleepy. I am starting to dream more often, but I believe this is due to sleeping in a too-warm room.
This room does not feel like home, although many of my things are in here. I have my Tarot deck, and some candles. My place for meditation. Some favorite posters on the wall. Art supplies. A little rehabilitated lamp. It’s quiet in here. No speakers. Very little in the way of electronics. An iron and ironing board in the closet. The room is relatively neat. I have control over the neatness in here, which is not true of other rooms.